


Des Petites Morts

by akathecentimetre



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akathecentimetre/pseuds/akathecentimetre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Treville takes as good a care as he can of his most loyal - and most dangerous - soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Des Petites Morts

Treville has met very few men in his life who wear the stench of a battlefield without ever having been a soldier. He knows the heavy darkness of it, can tell instantly whether a man is pretending to have completed service or whether he has actually been shot, stabbed, or seen the same. 

It has been several years since he has met a man like this one, now, in June 1624, when he is called by one of his burgeoning troop of musketeers to address a brawl in a tavern two streets away from the barracks. There is stranger there, it seems, who has broken the heads of two red guards so viciously that the rest of their fellows are refusing to enter and deal with him. The prospect of such amusement can never be passed up, he thinks as he steps through the low door, in his full regalia of leather and cape. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.

The stranger is blind drunk, that’s for certain, and Treville doesn’t need to ask his occupation. No farm laborer has this unique pattern of calluses on their hands, ones which only toughen the skin around the butt of a pistol or the hilt of a sword; and no career soldier’s hands are as pale and small. Paris is always awash with noblemen down on their luck and their hopes, but this one seems more than a little far gone.

Treville sits next to him at the bar, orders two cups of wine from the quivering landlord, and shoves one of them over to the stranger. “You did a good job on them, didn’t you,” he says, prodding one of the unconscious, bleeding guards with his foot. “Name?”

The look he gets in return to what he thought was a friendly enough enquiry is bleak and weary, so weary that he feels the ache of a war in his bones. “I have none.”

“Right,” Treville says, draining his cup. He can see several of his musketeers hovering at the tavern doorway, in predatory anticipation of a fight. “What shall I put on your arrest warrant, then? The cardinal will be curious.”

The stranger blinks, and then turns in his seat, dark hair falling over his face, and, in a pathetic supplication, offers up his wrists. “Your prisoner, sir. You may call me Athos.”

Treville shakes his head and stands. “That’s the name of a mountain.”

“Nevertheless, it is mine,” the man says, before he sways in his seat and slumps forward into Treville’s shoulder. The Captain calls in his men, tells them to take the mountain-man to a nearby boarding house, gives them fifty sous to cover a few nights of rest. He waits, and thinks. 

The stranger appears at the barracks to pay his respects four days later, and Treville watches him approach, observes the slouch in his walk, the stride of one who is pulled involuntarily through a world they are desperate to leave. The musketeers give him a wide berth. They fear the potential of this man, covered in weapons and clearly so uncaring of what he does with them.

He goes down into the courtyard, challenges this man to a duel to see what he is made of, and a crowd eagerly gathers to watch their Captain fight. Half an hour later they are both panting and exhausted, sporting wounds which will become new scars, stripped down to their shirts and steam rising off their skin. Treville has not fought this hard, nor enjoyed it this much, since he was sixteen and first smelled gunpowder on the body of a man he had just killed. 

Treville thinks that he can most definitely use this man.

*

There are very few soldiers he trusts, in these early days, with the fleur-de-lis and the bolt of shocking, bright blue. When he gives Athos the pauldron and cape he holds them in his hands for a long time, staring past or through them to the floor. Then he bows, leaves Treville’s office, and the Captain worries that he has misjudged everything.

But Athos returns the next morning, new straps buckled onto his coat, the tough, still-brittle leather on his shoulder, damp with rain. Treville sends him on a mission to Troyes to collect a witness to the murder of one of the king’s lords of the chamber, and no longer wonders whether he will come back.

*

Early in 1625, he chooses Athos to accompany him as they ride north in secret, ordered to gather intelligence on the state of the siege of Breda for Richelieu’s game of chess. On the second night, while preparing to sleep rough, Treville is cleaning and loading his pistols in case of ambush when Athos manages, once again, to surprise him.

“What do you mean, ‘what’s it like to kill a man’?”

Athos shrugs, his shoulders sloped inwards against the cold. “I’ve never killed a man. If I have to do it to protect you as we ride, I should like to know what to expect.”

Treville sits forward slowly, studying his lieutenant’s blank face. “You’ve killed before.” It is not a question.

Athos nods. “But not a man.”

“You expect there to be a difference, do you?” Treville huffs, turning away as he sits on his unrolled blanket and prepares to sleep. He is not equipped for this conversation, and knows it, and so has no qualms – not yet – about ignoring it. 

“I should hope so,” Athos murmurs behind him. “I could not bear it if it were the same.”

The next morning, they speak no more about it. They do both kill before they return to Paris, as the road is dangerous – Athos twice, himself once. They are deaths at a distance, by shooting. A few months later, Breda falls to the Spanish. The cardinal’s pawns advance.

*

There is only one soldier Treville can count on to report for duty half an hour after his intended execution, and only one whom he is grimly satisfied to see not flinch, nor crow, nor fume the next time he meets his erstwhile murderer.

Richelieu bows his head to Athos in a grating show of contrition. Treville is proud to see Athos, silent, return the honor.

*

They arrive at the barracks together in the summer of 1625, and how that particular friendship ever happened he doesn’t think anyone will ever know. Eighteen, perhaps nineteen, the big one with cards up his sleeves and dice falling out of his pockets, the smaller one with a cracked crucifix at his collarbone. They muck out the horses for a few days, then start following at Athos’ heels. After a week of this, Athos is in Treville’s office with a nag-induced headache (“Does your sword have a name? Mine shall be called Balizarde.” “You should pray more often. Might get you a woman”).

“For god’s sake, give them a commission and send them away. Far away.”

Treville smiles to himself as he completes the paperwork; the older boy already has muscles on him that would fell a horse, and the younger has proved himself an astonishing shot. “You should give them a chance. They could be good.”

Athos opens one eye from where he is scrunched into the corner, well into his second bottle. “You can’t be serious. They don’t need me.”

“Of course not,” Treville agrees, congratulating himself on the look of surprise his concession evinces. “You need them.”

Athos is silent for a long moment before he stands, takes the commissions from Treville’s outstretched hand, and leaves. A month later, Treville can see that his lieutenant’s back has straightened. He has learned to command, and the children to listen. Another month later, Athos tells him that he has chosen the name Aramis for René, and Porthos for the other.

“What was his real name?”

Athos smiles. “He never said.”

*

There is only one soldier, and indeed one man, that Treville will trust to touch the queen. Porthos will hurl his knives, and Aramis will throw himself at her feet, but just as Treville trusts no one but himself to take the king’s arm and force him towards his carriage as the bombs fizzle and the women scream, there is only one musketeer he trusts to shield the Queen with his body and pistol, only one whom he trusts to put his hand on her waist and take her from danger.

He asks Athos once, when they are both in their cups, if he is happy with his lot, now. Athos takes very little time to consider the question before he answers “For you, sir, I shall be.” 

He passes out not long afterwards, and Treville leaves him dozing in the office above the barracks before he returns to his hôtel. He thinks, as he falls asleep, that he has won a great victory.

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> This particular plot bunny was inspired by the frankly brilliant idea in 'Sleight of Hand' that Athos is Treville's second in command - I probably should have waited to write this until after episode 3 airs this Sunday for more backstory, but the bug was too strong! This is set in the 2014 universe, but incorporates elements from the book. And on that note - 2014 folks, meet the "d'Artagnan Romances" tag; the fandom's been around for a long time :-)
> 
> Plus: I know the dates in this are wrong for Aramis saying in episode 1 that he was in battle in 1621 and 1622; but the first troop of historical French musketeers wasn't formed until 1622 (and Richelieu was appointed chief minister in 1624), so I decided to bump my dates forward a few years.


End file.
